


A Moment Alone With You

by Johaerys



Series: More Than Might Be Wise: Dorian & Tristan Trevelyan [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, Drinking, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Kissing, M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:48:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21783955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johaerys/pseuds/Johaerys
Summary: The Inquisitor is a busy man, and Dorian has learnt to cherish the moments he has with him. When and as they come.Snapshots in time during Dorian's and Tristan Trevelyan's relationship.Ch 1: Kiss on the inside of the wristCh 2: The ways you said I love you: In a letterCh 3: Wild Nights - Wild Nights! - Emily DickinsonCh 4: "You seem a decent fellow. I hate to kill you."
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan, Dorian Pavus/Trevelyan, Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus
Series: More Than Might Be Wise: Dorian & Tristan Trevelyan [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1423345
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31





	1. When and As They Come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Kiss on the Inside of the Wrist.

Trevelyan is a busy man. Everyone knows that, and Dorian better than most.

That morning is one of the usual – war council meeting with his advisors, more meetings with nobles, judgements, requisitions to oversee. He barely has a moment to spare some days, but Dorian, if anything, is patient. He knows there isn’t much he can do, other than cherish the moments he does have with him, when and as they come.

He has much to do too, a lot to occupy himself with during the countless hours until he can see Trevelyan again. The minutes pass at a snail’s pace, and when Dorian glances outside the window, the sun is still not even close to the Frostback Mountain’s snowy peaks. It’s high up in the sky, bright and proud, an eternity away from setting.

Dorian sighs again, for the umpteenth time that day. Perhaps a trip to Adan’s apothecary to retrieve some potions will help take his mind off everything, if only for a while.

He makes his way down the stairs, hurriedly passing by Solas’ desk and walking through the narrow corridor leading to the throne room. His mind is already drifting to memories of that same morning, when he was lying in the comfort of Trevelyan’s bed and the warmth of his arms, when the door before him swings open.

Trevelyan stands still for a moment, a look of mild surprise on his features. His lips almost widen in a smile, before a glance at Solas stops him. He lets the door fall closed and straightens, eyeing him carefully.

His guarded expression drives a piercing shot of longing through Dorian, but he doesn’t let any of that show on his face. Trevelyan is still the Inquisitor, after all. Can’t be seen being overly familiar with a member of his inner circle.

Dorian nods at him and walks on, and Trevelyan stands aside to let him pass. Their shoulders brush, and just when he’s about to reach for the door handle, the feel of Trevelyan’s palm sliding down his arm stops him short.

Trevelyan’s long fingers wrap about his hand before he brings it up to his lips and presses a soft, feather- light kiss on the inside of his wrist.

It’s the tenderest and briefest of touches, Trevelyan’s mouth lingering on his skin only for a fleeting moment, but it’s enough to make his blood course that much more swiftly through his veins. Trevelyan lets his hand go and turns away, a spark of mischief in his dark blue eyes.

Dorian stares for a moment after him, his heart thumping softly in his chest. Trevelyan’s back is once more straight and rigid underneath his coat, his head held high, the heels of his boots clicking on the hard stone floor as he walks. He is a busy man, and Dorian has learnt to cherish the moments he has with him. When and as they come.


	2. Good Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: The ways you said I love you: In a letter.

The day had been bad.

It had been long and wearisome and just _bad_.

Tristan had lost count of how many people had requested his audience. All he knew was when he had sat on the throne it was just after the morning meal, and now the sun was way past the middle of the sky. His head ached, and his belly was rumbling, and his back hurt from the bite of the hard seat. He stared listlessly at the man before him who was drawling endlessly in a heavy Fereldan accent about his lost ram, named Lord Woolsley of all things, that he claimed had ran off when a rift opened near his hut.

“A lucky animal, my lord,” he would say again and again. “A very lucky animal. Has been with my family for years.”

“And what do you want me to do about it?” Tristan asked dryly, cutting his ramblings short.

The man blinked at him, clutching his woollen hat close to his chest. “T-to close the rift, of course, my lord.” Then, after some thought, he added, “And I’d like Lord Woolsley back, too, if it’s no bother.”

“It _is_ a bother,” Tristan snapped. “I have demons to hunt and rifts to close, not to mention an entire organisation to run. I’m not here to run after bloody goats!”

“I-it’s a ram, lord,” the farmer corrected meekly.

“ _Whatever_ it bloody is,” Tristan said, rolling his eyes.

Josephine shot him a sidelong frown and cleared her throat. “Thank you for bringing this to out attention, master…”

“One-Eyed Jimmy, milady,” the man said, bowing his head.

She smiled at him. “Yes, thank you, Master… Jimmy. The Inquisitor will attend to the rift as soon as possible.”

The man bowed and left, mumbling his thanks. Tristan shifted uncomfortably on the throne -he made a mental note to bring a pillow next time - and leaned towards Josephine.

“How many more do I have left?”

“He was the last one, Your Worship,” Josephine said with a small smile that looked tight but vaguely placating.

“Thank the bloody Maker,” Tristan grumbled, standing up. Josephine announced the end of the hearings, and the crowd that had gathered in the throne room quickly dispersed, their muttering echoing in the large room.

Tristan took a couple hurried steps, eager to get away, when Josephine stopped him.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, Your Worship,” she said, somewhat timidly, “do you have that signed report I asked? Regarding the House of Repose?”

Tristan patted his coat pocket. “Ah, yes. Here it is.” He reached inside his coat to pull it out, when another, smaller piece of paper fell from his pocket. He picked it up and opened it, and he suddenly felt all his earlier discomfort disappearing.

His duties had been keeping him away from Dorian far too often those last few weeks. Tristan couldn’t help but feel bad about it, and as an apology, he had snuck into his room the previous night to leave a single red rose and a letter by his pillow. He had thought long and hard about what to write in the letter - he was never any good with words, after all- and in the end, he had settled for one of his favourite poems, hoping that it would be enough to illustrate his feelings:

_Good-night? ah! no; the hour is ill_

_Which severs those it should unite;_

_Let us remain together still,_

_Then it will be good night._

_How can I call the lone night good,_

_Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight?_

_Be it not said, thought, understood —_

_Then it will be–good night._

_To hearts which near each other move_

_From evening close to morning light,_

_The night is good; because, my love,_

_They never say good-night._

How Dorian had managed to slip the note back inside his pocket without him realising was beyond him, but it wasn’t just that which made Tristan’s lips widen in a smile. Underneath his carefully chosen poem was a small note, written in Dorian’s elegant, flowy handwriting:

_I may very well vomit._

Tristan let out a slow, mirthful chuckle. This was probably the closest Dorian was going to get to admitting that he appreciated the gesture.

“Your Worship,” Josephine said, snapping him from his reverie, “you have an appointment with Commander Cullen in an hour to discuss the status of the armoury. Shall I have an agent fetch you the current reports for you to read before your meeting?”

Tristan abruptly turned around on his heels. “Cancel my meeting. In fact, cancel all my meetings. I’m taking the rest of the day off.”

“But, Inquisitor…” Josephine said behind his back, but Tristan cut her off with a wave. 

“You should take the day off too, Josephine. Inquisitor’s orders.”

He smiled as he hopped up the steps to the library. That day was going to be splendid after all, it seemed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem is "Good-Night" by Percy Bysshe Shelley.
> 
> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come say hi if you fancy!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! xoxo


	3. Wild Nights

The sounds of music, conversation and the clinking of cups as they met in merry toasts drifted through the tavern. The upper floor of the Herald’s rest had been entirely reserved for the Inquisitor and his inner circle to celebrate his triumphant return from the Emerald Graves. The Inner Circle was there. The Inquisitor wasn’t.

Sitting by the low table, Dorian took a generous sip of his wine and winced. Whatever passed for wine in this part of the world was nobody’s business. He took another sip, just for good measure, and winced again. He was wondering whether drinking enough of the stuff would temporarily make him forget his sense of taste, when he was startled by a hand clapping him hard on the shoulder.

“Why’re you wrinkling that nose of yours?” Sera said, plopping on the chair next to him. She leaned forward, sniffing the contents of his cup, then proceeded to make a disgusted grimace. “Did something die in there?”

“I think so, yes.” He swirled the wine in the cup a few times, then placed it on the table. “It appears you have a keen nose for wine.”

“Never liked the stuff. Ale’s better.”

“Ah.” He stayed silent, eyes drifting towards the door. What in the Void was taking Trevelyan so long?

“Oi.” Sera’s face, when it blocked his vision, wore a curious, perplexed frown. “What’s with the puppy eyes?”

Dorian huffed, folding his arms before his chest. “Sera, I’ve told you time and time again. These are no puppy eyes. This is what it looks like when people _think_. You should try it sometime.”

She blinked, leaning closer. A toothy grin widened her lips. “Miss your boyfriend?”

“My b- would you stop it with all the questions?” he hissed, swatting her away. “Preposterous. Wherever you get those ideas, I’ll never know. Now , if you’ll excuse me, I must-“

He was ready to stand up and go to the bar and demand a decent drink, when the door swung open, and the cheers that rose from the people gathered in the tavern were nigh on deafening.

Dorian’s breath hitched as he watched Trevelyan make his way through the tables downstairs, giving reserved nods and half smiles to the people holding their cups up, shouting greetings and praises as he passed.

He hopped up the steps to the upper level two at a time, his pale blonde waves bouncing before his face with his movements. His cheeks were flushed when he reached the stair landing and glanced about him. His eyes met Dorian’s, and he smiled. A warm, slow spreading smile. Dorian gulped.

“There he is! The man of the hour,” Bull said, standing up. “Good to see you, Boss.”

“Likewise.” Trevelyan took the cup that was offered to him, glancing at Dorian over its rim as he drank. He sauntered over to the seat next to him, snaking a hand around his waist as he sat. “Did I miss anything?”

Dorian blinked at him. “Have you been drinking?”

“Had a meeting with some nobles from Orlais. There was wine.” He sipped some more of whatever swill Bull had given him, wincing as he swallowed. “But this is better.” He leaned closer, sighing as he nuzzled Dorian’s ear. “You smell good.”

Dorian’s skin prickled with his touch, a shiver running down his spine. He noticed a few eyes straying to their direction and he cleared his throat, reluctantly edging back to look at him. Trevelyan’s eyes glinted oddly in the light from the torches, the lingering scent of fruity wine on his breath. Dorian swallowed thickly, trying to keep his voice level. “Thank you. So do you.”

Trevelyan smiled cheekily at him as he took another draught, fingers skimming the small of Dorian’s back before he stood up again to speak with Leliana. That dratted tease of a man.

Sip after sip, cup after cup, and soon everyone in that room was floating along different levels of inebriation. Josephine was clapping excitedly as Bull and Krem were perched atop a table, singing a bawdy tavern song, while Varric and Cullen had stopped their game of Wicked Grace to join them.

Bull and Krem’s song drew to a close amongst thunderous claps and jeers. Bull’s laughter was loud and booming when he stepped down, slinging an enormous arm over Trevelyan’s shoulder. “Who wants to hear a word from the Inquisitor?”

Everyone stomped their feet, laughing and cheering. Bull nudged Trevelyan towards the table, who brought no resistance -for once in his life. He was swaying slightly on his feet when he stood upon the table and cleared his throat.

“Shit,” Sera whispered in Dorian’s ear. “Is he going to sing? That oughta be good.”

“No.” Dorian’s smile was hidden behind the rim of his mug. “No, he won’t.”

Sera looked at him questioningly, but before she could say anything else, Trevelyan’s voice cut through the silence that had spread over the company.

“I would to heaven that I were so much clay, As I am blood, bone, marrow, passion, feeling- Because at least the past were passed away- And for the future- (but I recite this reeling, Having got drunk exceedingly today, So that I seem to stand upon the ceiling) I say- the future is a serious matter- And so - for the Maker’s sake- whisky and ice cold water!”

More cheers, claps, and the sound of mugs banging against the table erupted from the crowd as Trevelyan bowed dramatically and hopped off the table, landing on his feet like a cat, staggering only a hair. He made as if to return to his chair next to Dorian, when Varric shouted “More! More!”

Trevelyan shook his head, laughing, but more and more took up the chant. He turned to look at Dorian, who was watching him carefully. Waiting. A playful smirk curled the edges of his lips as he crossed the distance between them, falling on one knee before him.

“Wild Nights,” Trevelyan started, and silence fell in the room once again, “Wild Nights! Were I with thee, Wild Nights should be our luxury. Futile - the winds - To a heart in port - Done with the compass - Done with the chart! Rowing in Eden - Ah, the sea! Might I moor - Tonight… in _thee_.” The scoundrel had the audacity to wiggle his eyebrows at him.

Dorian’s heart beat madly against his ribcage, making his head swim. He could feel all eyes on them, waiting for his reaction. Trevelyan was watching him, too, that tiny dimple at the corner of his mouth more pronounced than ever. Dorian couldn’t remember the last time he had seen him so… jovial. So carefree. He let his eyes glide over Trevelyan’s features, and so rosy was the flush in cheeks, so wide his smile, so bright the glint in his dark blue eyes, that suddenly Dorian couldn’t care less who was to see.

He reached out, gently cupping Trevelyan’s cheek. His lover’s gaze softened as he leaned into his touch, brushing his lips over his palm. Lips soft like flower petals, the tiny bristles of day old stubble caressing his skin. His beautiful, drunk, exquisite man.

Without a word, Trevelyan stood up, pulling Dorian into his arms. The raucous of cheers and applause around them was deafening when Trevelyan’s lips closed over his, arms wrapping around his waist. He tasted of wine and that terrible swill Bull had given him, and Dorian lapped at it eagerly, uncovering the sweet, earthy taste of him.

He was dangerously short of breath when Trevelyan drew back to look at him, thumb brushing his cheek. “So… is that a yes on the mooring thing?”

Dorian laughed against his lips, pulling him flush against him, oblivious to everyone and everything that wasn’t them. “ _Festis bei umo canavarum_.“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first poem is: I would to heaven that I were so much clay - Lord Byron
> 
> The second poem is: Wild Nights - Wild Nights! - Emily Dickinson
> 
> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come say hi! :)


	4. For a Fistful of Roses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: "You seem a decent fellow. I hate to kill you."

“I don’t like this place.”

Trevelyan’s voice came muffled from within his mug, his eyes scanning the room as he took a long draught of ale. The inn they had stopped at on their way to Val Royeaux was humble, to say the least; rustic, even. A shithole, if Dorian was being honest about it. The scent of cheap ale wafted from every corner, crass jokes followed by raucous laughter and fists banging on tables mingled with the minstrel’s tune, that was barely audible now. Which was probably fortunate, since the man’s lute was out of tune, his voice even more so. Really, a goose squawking and flapping its wings would be far preferable to this. At least the animal might come close to something resembling a rhythm.

“Come on, Boss, it’s not so bad,” Iron Bull said, sipping on his ale. “I’ve seen worse.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Dorian replied with a roll of his eyes. He still couldn’t understand why they were there to begin with. Sister Leliana had received an anonymous tip from someone claiming they had inside information about Duke Gaspard and the movements of his army in the Dales. They had specified the time and place they were to meet, and it just so happened to be this disaster of a tavern they were now sitting in. Leliana had assured them that her agents had found no suspicious movements, that it was unlikely to be a trap. “Even if it is,” she’d said with a small smile, “you’re more than capable of taking care of it.”

Dorian set his cup down, clearing his throat that had been half burnt by the acidic brew they called wine around those parts. At that point, he almost wished it was a trap. Anything that would save him from staying in that Maker forsaken place for one more minute. 

“Right,” Trevelyan said, slapping his palms on the table and pushing himself up, “I’m going out for some fresh air.”

“What’s wrong with the air here? Not enough feckin’ roses for his Inquisitorial-ness?” Sera cackled, downing her drink.

“A couple roses never hurt anybody,” Trevelyan muttered petulantly before turning around and pushing his way to the door. It wasn’t long before Dorian went after him, dusting his robes. 

“If you’re in need of roses, I think I might be able to procure a few,” he said teasingly, sauntering towards him. “But it might cost you.” 

Full, rosy coloured lips widened in a smirk. Trevelyan’s hands wound around his waist, pulling Dorian close. “Is that so?”

“I’m afraid it is.”

“And what will it cost me, exactly?”

“Let’s see,” Dorian hummed, tilting his head up as Trevelyan placed a kiss under his jaw, one tender enough to make Dorian’s hair stand on end. “A decent room, for a start. With a decent bed that’s not infested with lice. Oh, and I believe a tub instead of a barrel isn’t too much to ask for. And how about some wine that doesn’t taste like last year’s vinegar?”

Trevelyan scoffed, a little puff of air that warmed Dorian’s neck. “In this place we’re in, you might as well be asking for a miracle.”

“You’re the Herald of Andraste. I’m sure you could whip something up,” he grinned.

The rough sound of boots on gravel and a pained yelp made them both jolt. Dorian blinked in surprise when he saw Bull dragging a scrawny man by the collar, his lip already bleeding from where the Qunari had hit him, Sera in tow. 

“What’s the meaning of this?” Trevelyan demanded, pushing himself upright. 

“Saw this one creeping after you,” he said, tossing the sorry wretch on the ground before their feet. 

Dorian tilted his head to the side, studying the man. “Could it be the informant?”

“An informant with a drawn dagger, skulking in the shadows like a thief? Don’t think so, Boss.” 

“What are these- these ludicrous accusations? I was only trying to defend myself!” the man protested in a thick Orlesian accent. “I’m no informant, nor was I about to attack anyone! Not before your _beast_ attacked me,” he spat. 

Trevelyan narrowed his eyes, folding his arms before his chest. “You’re not making your position any better.”

The man cowered, glancing away and back. “I didn’t mean to scare you, messer, I swear it. On my honour! On my life!” he mumbled. “I-I just came out for some air, and-”

“Who are you?” Trevelyan asked, cutting him short. “Why are you here?”

“Bardeaux,” he said quickly. “Vincent Bardeaux. I’m a minstrel. Just a minstrel. Looking for work. Heard this place might need someone to play a song or two and came to check. I was just about to leave before-”

“If you’re a minstrel,” Sera said, perching herself atop a barrel, “where’s your lute?”

“I-” The supposed minstrel paled. “It broke. In a brawl, last night.”

“How convenient,” Dorian said with a sweet smile.

“I swear it! Find me a lute and I’ll play any tune you like.”

Bull lifted a brow, glancing at Sera. Grinning, she kicked off the barrel, sneaking inside the tavern. A few minutes later, she re-appeared with a small lute and a mug of ale she had managed to swipe off a table in passing. 

“There you go, fancy pants,” she told the man, handing him the lute. “Now play us a song.”

Bardeaux cleared his throat, wincing when he plucked the strings and a jarring, discordant sound escaped. He tuned the lute and straightened, clearing his throat again, more loudly this time. “ _O lovely rose, my sweet soul-”_

“Does this look like a Chantry gathering?” Bull smirked leaned against the wall. “You must know something better than that.” 

“I know… some songs,” the man said, squinting. “But I would hardly call them appropriate. If you catch my drift.”

“That’s the kind we like,” Sera said with a wicked grin. “What are you waiting for? Get on with it, mate, ain’t got all day!”

“I… suppose I shall.” Bardeaux prepared to start again, when Bull stopped him once more. 

“Wait! You must know some about him too, right?” he nodded to Trevelyan, his eye glittering with mischief. “About the Herald of Andraste?”

“The Herald of Andraste?” The minstrel’s cheeks were bright red as he looked from Trevelyan to Bull and back. “I suppose… I do know some songs. Just a few, mind you.”

Trevelyan rolled his eyes and huffed. “Bull, no.” 

“Come on, Boss, it’ll be fun! You never get to hear any of the good stuff in the Herald’s Rest. Might as well hear it now, right?”

Dorian placed his hand on Trevelyan’s back, leaning close to his ear. “Bull is right. I think it’ll be interesting. We could see what the people say about you in this part of the world, too, hm?”

Trevelyan shot him a sideways look before his scowl broke, his lips pursing only slightly. “...fine.”

“Right!” Sera leaned back against the wall, sipping on her beer. “Crack on, then, what are you waiting for?”

“Ah… alright.” The minstrel slanted a nervous glance at Trevelyan before his fingers started running deftly down the strings.

_“The Herald fancied a dark-haired lad,_

_With sharp eyes and a sharper tongue,_

_A magician he was, of great renown,_

_People gathered when he came to town,_

_He played with fire, tamed the storms,_

_He juggled balls and swallowed swords-”_

“I’m not _that_ kind of magician,” Dorian grumbled, already regretting having urged Trevelyan to listen to the dratted song. “That makes it sound like I go around performing petty parlour tricks!”

“I think he’s talking about a different kind of tricks, Vint,” Bull chuckled, before Sera shushed them both sharply.

_“'Such skill,” cried the Herald, “such finesse!_

_My love to him I must confess.”_

_He knelt before the mage’s feet,_

_And took his mighty hand in his,_

_“There are no eyes, no lips like thine,_

_Your silken hair, your form divine,_

_I want thee with a throbbing need,_

_‘Tis a matter of urgency indeed,_

_You hold the key to my heart’s lock,_

_I shall not rest until I’ve had your-'"_

“For the Maker’s sake,” Dorian rolled his eyes as Bull howled with laughter. “Do we _really_ have to listen to this?” He yelped when Sera punched him on the arm.

“Oi!” She glared at both of them, waving her mug in the air and spilling beer in every direction. “He was just getting to the good part, ye daft tits!”

Trevelyan chuckled, the blade of his dagger catching the light as he twirled it around his fingers. “You seem a decent fellow,” he told the minstrel. “I hate to kill you.”

The man’s face, who had lit up momentarily with hope, twisted in a grimace of despair. “R-rock! I was going to say rock!” He bit his lip, wringing his hands. “I implore you, messer. I meant no harm! I’m just a minstrel-” He paused, gaping when Trevelyan’s blade pressed against his neck. 

“You tell me who sent you now,” he hissed, his expression turning stony, “or you won’t sing another song about ‘rocks’ again. Yes?”

The minstrel, pale as a sheet, nodded with a whimper. 

“So he was an assassin after all,” Dorian said, lying on the soft bed of their new room; the largest one the tavern possessed. It was warm and comfortable, all things considered, yet he still had to make due with an old wine barrel full of tepid water instead of a tub for his bath that night. _Dratted South,_ he reflected acidly. “Who would have thought.”

“I did.” Trevelyan kicked off his boots and flopped on the mattress beside him. “And you. And Bull. I believe Sera knew before any of us did. Plain as day, really.”

“Hmm. I believe Leliana is getting rusty.”

“So am I.” He sighed and closed his eyes. “That was more than enough excitement for a day, thank you very much.”

“Are you quite sure about that? You do, after all, have a certain reputation to keep.” Dorian wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, propping himself on his elbow.

Trevelyan cracked his eyes open to peek at him, his lips widening in a smirk. “I do?”

“Oh, yes. Remind me where the minstrel left off…? Something about rocks and locks, was it? Or perhaps-” Dorian chuckled when a suddenly very energetic Trevelyan rolled on top of him, pinning his wrists above his head. 

“Odd. I can’t remember. I’m afraid you’ll have to tell me.” He flashed him a wry grin. “Or show me.”

Dorian hummed in amusement, a shiver running down his spine when Trevelyan's plush lips closed softly his own. “Gladly,” he whispered. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come say hi! :)


End file.
